“Perfect! Look at that, textbook s’more. Pinterest would weep.” Unlike what a sane, non-lethal human would do and hand me the s’more, he lifted it toward my mouth. “First bite’s the best.”
What. No, truly, what? Did he expect me to bite it like this? While he held it?
“Go on,” he urged.
Evidently, he did expect it, and against my better judgment, I opened my mouth and took a bite. Half-melted chocolate and gooey marshmallow oozed out from the sandwich under the pressure of my teeth, dripping onto his fingers.
“Quick! Get it,” Luke said, bringing his hand closer.
Sirens should have been wailing in my skull, floodlights sweeping the scene, a full tactical team rappelling in to restrain. But my brain had abandoned all pretense of self-preservation. Because what did I do? Leaning in, I closed my mouth around his fingers.
Flavors hit my tongue—smoky marshmallow, rich dark chocolate—and for one suspended heartbeat, I had Luke in my mouth, his fingers between my lips while I sucked and licked them clean.
The realization brought reason back online and I pulled back, trying to remember how to swallow, how to regulate my pulse, how to continue existing as a semi-functional human after crossing into the ninth circle of unrequited-crush self-immolation.
Luke gave a soft laugh. “You’ve got...” He gestured to his chin. “Chocolate and marshmallow.”
“I seem to recall you saying I need to embrace the mess. I simply took the advice to heart.” I swiped at my mouth. “Did I get it?”
“Valid try, but I’m not sure you’re catching it all without a mirror. Here,” he said, leaning in, face close. Dangerously close. Kissing-distance close. My breath stalled on an exhale, desire warring with panic.
His thumb pressed to my lower lip, sweeping from one corner to the other before tracing the curve of my chin, collecting every remnant of the dessert as though this counted as a perfectly friend-coded gesture and not the equivalent of yanking the pin from a grenade and tossing it into one of the chambers of my heart. Yep, time to schedule that cardiology consult. Maybe a pulmonologist too, since my lungs had also decided to resign whenever he got close.
“There,” he murmured, drawing back, lifting his thumb to his own mouth, and licking it. “Crisis averted.”
Crisis not averted. Crisis escalated to DEFCON I. Months ago, in Ezra and Micah’s kitchen, when he’d done this, it had been intimate. But this... this was a seismic upgrade, a full-body event with aftershocks and structural collapse.
Luke remained blissfully oblivious to the atmospheric consequences of his actions, reclining back in his chair and taking a bite of his own s’more, while I ignored mine, too focused on reassembling my composure, a feat proving about as productive as attempting origami with wet paper.
“Well!” Luke announced, as he took another bite. “S’mores successfully made, which means it’s officially game time. I’ll break us in with the classic Two Truths and a Lie. You ready?”
At least he hadn’t gone straight for Truth or Dare. My nervous system wouldn’t withstand that. At least with Two Truths and a Lie, I controlled the narrative. “Bring it on,” I said.
“Here we go. I’ve dislocated my shoulder, twice, I have a tattoo no one living has ever seen, and I once got mistaken as a male stripper at a bachelorette party hosted at Opal and Obsidian.”
“Those all sound true.”
“That’s the point. But I assure you one of those statements is untrue.”
“Well, you’ve shared your escapades as a kid, many resulting in injury, and you were a star football defenseman so it seems reasonable you’ve dislocated your shoulder. And a bunch of drunk women at the club mistaking you for a stripper... that sounds like a normal shift for you. I’d be shocked if it hasn’t happened more than once. So, I’m going to say the tattoo, namely because I’ve now seen you shirtless.”
He tossed me a smirk so devastating it should have come with a warning label. “Wrong. I’ve only dislocated my shoulder once. The tattoo is the truth.”
No way. He had a tattoo that no one had ever seen? That single detail narrowed the options to far too few places, setting off far too many thoughts I had no business entertaining.
Where the hell was it? Inner thigh? Hipbone? Groin? Irrelevant. All of it irrelevant. Yet my brain refused the memo, fixating on that revelation like it held the key to everything.
I forced my eyes to the fire. This was not the moment to start mapping every inch of Luke’s body in a desperate attempt to triangulate tattoo coordinates.
“You want to see?” His question broke my silent tug-of-war.
“See what?”
“My tattoo.”
I practically choked on my sip of hot cocoa. Did I want to see the secret tattoo, the one hidden somewhere on the carved-from-temptation body of his, while I sat here pathetically half in love with him and aware he’d never see me the same way? Was he for real? He had to be fucking with me.
Looking at him, really looking at him, the realization struck. His expression carried something calculated, something I recognized all too well in the worst way.
